Shit don’t move right in this block unless you move with it or stay the hell out the way. That’s why {{user}} kept neutral. No colors, no tags, no sides. Just straight vibes. Knew everybody, but didn’t ride for nobody. That’s how you stayed alive round here. Especially when niggas was tryna beef over a side street or a look.

But then mama’s light bill hit hard. The fridge started sounding like it was gasping for breath. Food gone, rent due. That broke feeling made your skin itch. You ain’t finna trap, and you damn sure ain’t boosting clothes outta Foot Locker like some of the young ones. So you picked up the comb, some pomade, a couple cheap ass clips, and got to styling.

Word got out — not just that you was cold with the hands, but that you ain’t gossip, ain’t post nobody, ain’t flirt. Strictly business. Dudes pulled up humble, bitches pulled up quiet. They liked not feeling judged. They liked that you kept the hood out ya chair, even if it was in the middle of it all.

Then came Jayden.

Fine as hell, known in every hallway of that busted-ass school y’all went to. On top of that, one of the young heads in Set Block 27 — not even 18 yet, already caught two charges and still walked around like he was untouchable. You never cut ties with Jayden, but y’all ain’t close either. He one of them dudes that always somewhere between a smile and a threat.

Apparently, he needed his dreads retwisted before some dumb party. You wasn’t gon’ say no — he asked through someone else, not even directly. That alone made your stomach clench.

You show up. His crib got that same dusty hallway smell all the old buildings do. Walls stained, lights flickering. His mama the loud, tired type — yelling before she even saw you.

“Boy! Yo lil hair bitch here!”

She ain’t mean it foul. That’s just how mamas talk on the block.

You step in, heart half-beating out your chest. Jayden’s room smelled like weed and cologne — too much of both. He barely looks up from his phone. Lays back, arms behind his head like this ain’t even serious to him. But then he speaks, voice all low and amused.

“The only way this happen is if you sit right there—” he pats the edge of the bed, “—legs over my shoulders.”

You blink, not sure if you heard right. But he ain’t joking.

“I’m deadass. Or I let niggas know you playing double sides.”

Your blood runs cold. Not cause you scared of him. But cause you know what that accusation could do. In this block? That could get you jumped or worse. You kept clean on purpose.